Page 36 of Lady and the Hitman

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Or the first honest moment I’d had in years.

“You’re wet enough to ruin that dress,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now imagine me pulling it up. One hand on your hip. The other sliding down your chest. My breath at your neck.”

My hand twitched between my thighs. I almost moved.

Almost.

“Don’t touch,” he growled.

I froze.

“Not until I’m inside you. Not until you’re begging.”

I swallowed, hard. My pulse thundered in my ears.

“You’d take me right here, wouldn’t you?” he said. “In the open. With the sound of traffic behind you and your hands pressed against the wall like a good girl.”

I moaned—quiet, desperate.

He chuckled softly through the earpiece. “You’re close.”

“I can’t—” I gasped.

“You can. But you won’t.”

My whole body trembled.

“I want you aching. Swollen. Hungry.”

He paused, and the silence made me ache more.

“I want you ruined by the time I touch you.”

I whimpered again. My thighs were slick, my breath shallow, my mouth dry.

The heat from the city seeped into me, tangled with the heat in my blood. I didn’t know where I ended and the need began.

And then?—

“You’ll wait for me now,” he said.

And I did.

Pressed against the wall.

Panting.

Dripping.

Ruined.

Just the way he wanted.

8

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